


Bad Day

by Lyowyn



Series: Sympathy For The Devil [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Established Relationship, House has a bad morning, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:29:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23448565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyowyn/pseuds/Lyowyn
Summary: House is having a rough morning. It's all Wilson's fault, obviously.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Series: Sympathy For The Devil [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686829
Comments: 4
Kudos: 86





	Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> This series is one from the vault, but I kind of like it, so I decided to dust it off a bit and post it over here. It was written between 2007-2008, so it takes place canonically somewhere after season 3, but diverges after that.

House awoke to the blaring of his alarm clock. He fumbled the switch off, not bothering to check the time, and rolled over onto his back. He cracked one sleep-caked eye open and glared at the other side of the bed, but it was empty.

Wilson had already left for work without waking house, which meant that he hadn't gotten ready for work here, which meant that he'd gotten ready for work someplace else, which meant that something was going on. But, as it was 7:20 am, so House couldn't be bothered figuring out what that _something_ might be, at least not until he ingested some caffeine. He rolled back onto his side and reached down for his cane, but it wasn't in its usual place, nor was it hooked over the nightstand or the bedpost where Wilson sometimes put it.

And, well… _shit._

Wilson had all but carried him to the bedroom last night. They'd both had to work late, and been more than eager to get right down to business the moment they'd gotten home. House's cane lay forgotten somewhere in the general vicinity of the door. Wilson could have at least put his cane by the bed before he left; he must have passed it on his way out the door.

House looked longingly at the telephone by the bed. His leg hurt and he was already starting the day off with a headache; he would give almost anything to call in sick right now. But he had clinic duty this morning, and he'd already blown it off twice this week, and even that was pushing his luck. If he did it again, Cuddy would have his balls.

He rubbed at his thigh with his knuckles and groaned. He eyed the clock resentfully, and considered just going back to sleep, but he had things to do, places to go, people to berate: _Wilson, for instance_.

Carefully sitting up in bed, he angled himself onto the edge, carefully took his time stretching what was left of all the appropriate muscles, and gave himself a good push off from the mattress. He tottered unsteadily on his feet for a moment before his leg gave out and he fell to the floor.

_Fuck._

"Shit!" He looked around the room in search of a temporary third leg. He needed a cane, and some Vicodin. He _definitely_ needed some Vicodin. Unfortunately, neither seemed to be in attendance.

He needed a cane; he absolutely refused the indignity of crawling to the door like a baby. _Cane_ … a cane… something… _anything_? But, Wilson was far too neat; he didn't leave anything lying about, and there wasn't anything even remotely cane-like within sight. Why the hell didn't he have a spare? He certainly seemed to go through them quickly enough. He used to have a pimp cane; whatever happened to that? It seemed to have disappeared around the same time he took his tuxedo in to be cleaned. Or rather, Wilson had taken it in to be dry-cleaned. Jimmy and Mr. Chin were obviously conspiring against him.

Damn Jimmy. This was all _his fault_. Jimmy and his damned brown eyes, and his fuckable little ass. He wouldn’t be in this state if he hadn’t overexerted himself the night before.

He got to his feet and braced himself as best he could against the night stand. He closed his eyes in a grimace and huffed out a sigh before pivoting himself back onto the bed where he started.

If he could just manage to stumble his way between the furniture, he might make it to the door upright. He made it to the end of the bed, and from there to the dresser, easily enough. He knocked over a bottle of Wilson's cologne as he leaned against it, and didn't bother picking it up. The door gave him a little trouble; he almost lost his balance reaching to open it, but managed to steady himself in the doorframe once it was opened. He rubbed at his thigh, eyeing the hallway in contempt.

It wasn't much of a hallway in any case, maybe six feet to the living room, but Wilson had insisted on moving the solitary bookcase that had, until recently, lined the wall, because it made things look too cramped-- wasn't feng shui, apparently. House didn't need his apartment to be feng shui; he liked clutter. Clutter helped him think. Cramped spaces made him comfortable. Cluttered hallways _gave him things to lean on_.

Fucking, Wilson, and his fucking interior design aesthetics.

He made it two or three more steps out from the door, steadying himself with one hand against the wall, before he fell down again: a little more gently this time. There was no use fighting it anymore. No one was here to see him. He could swallow his pride and crawl the rest of the way. Cursing the whole way, he made it to the door and reclaimed his cane.

Once again armed, House rose triumphantly to his feet, at which point he realized that he hadn't actually gotten dressed yet. He was clad only in a pair of pale blue boxers, and not even _his_ pale blue boxers at that. He shed the offending item of clothing. Let Wilson pick them up later; they were his anyway.

He stopped to take a piss and then limped back into the bedroom to get ready for work. He sat on the end of the bed to pull his jeans on. His leg still ached, as well as his head. Vicodin was definitely next on the agenda, and then a healthy morning dose of caffeine. Maybe he'd even get really crazy and eat something. There was even the slight possibility that Wilson had left him some breakfast-- which might even be enough to redeem him, if said breakfast included pancakes. House's mouth watered at the thought.

Feeling a little better, he limped to the kitchen to attend to the rest of his morning needs. A quick rifle through the drawer by the phone revealed three empty Vicodin bottles, but not a single dosage of the blessed drug. He tried to remember his last pill, and hazily remembered Wilson popping a couple into his mouth last night, as he was falling asleep, so that the pain wouldn't wake him in the night.

He hurried back to the bedroom, ignoring the pain in his leg, and then proceeded to ransack first Wilson's night stand and then his own. He unearthed a few more empty bottles, a glow-in-the-dark condom, and a handful of half-melted aspirin. He considered the aspirin, but if he was going for non-narcotic, OTC drugs, he liked his chances in the medicine cabinet better. He pocketed the aspirin anyway, as well as the condom.

A few moments worth of destruction in the bathroom, where he threw the majority of the medicine cabinet's contents, including Wilson’s toothbrush, into the sink, and he managed to find a bottle of ibuprophen. At least it was better than the aspirin in his pocket. He poured six of the rust-colored pills into his hand, considered, and added two more. He chewed on the pills stoically for a few seconds before his taste buds recovered from the initial shock. The urge to expel the burningj substance from his mouth became overwhelming, and he spluttered what was left of the pills all over the contents of the sink.

A particularly large splatter of reddened discharge on Wilson's toothbrush made him feel just the slightest twinge of guilt, but it served Wilson right. And besides, who the hell kept their toothbrush in the medicine cabinet? There was a perfectly good cup on the ledge by the sink, where House kept his own toothbrush, with plenty of room for it.

Damn toothbrush.

House swallowed and ran his tongue along his teeth, trying to get the taste out of his mouth. He took the bottle with him to the kitchen, thinking better of running water all over the contents of the sink and making the mess any worse than it already was.

He filled a cupped palm with tap water and swallowed, rinsing the taste from his mouth. With another handful of water he swallowed a couple more pills to make up for the ones splattered all over the bathroom sink. He was more than willing to let his system digest them at a normal rate this time. House rubbed at his temple and then his thigh, groaned again, and then moved on to the next order of business: breakfast.

He ventured hopefully over to the refrigerator and pulled the door open. He was greeted by a stark white glow of clean emptiness, rather than the sight of some neatly packaged food from Wilson that he had hoped for. There was a single piece of paper tented on the middle shelf, but otherwise the fridge was bare of all but a few condiments. He picked the piece of paper up; it was cold to the touch. The unfolded note revealed a brief message in Wilson's neat, Oncologist's script.

_House,_

_It's your turn to pick up groceries. I'm not going to do it this time, regardless of how long you plan on leaving the fridge empty. If you want food, then you're just going to have to go get it yourself. I've made you a list. It's in your jacket._

_James_

"Yeah, sure, whatever you say Jimmy," House mumbled under his breath. He wadded the note into a ball and threw it in the general vicinity of the garbage can. He wondered how long the note had been there: before yesterday, at least. They’d both had a full case load the last week, and they hadn't been eating at home lately, but the refrigerator looked freshly scrubbed and House couldn't imagine the last time Wilson would have had the time to do that.

They had been busy. House couldn't remember the last time he opened the refrigerator, so how was he supposed to know he needed to get groceries, if Wilson didn't tell him? Still, he managed to feel guilty and annoyed at the same time. It wasn't that big of a deal; he could pick up some breakfast at work.

All he needed was a quick cup of coffee to get him moving. Once he had some caffeine running through his veins, he could make it to the hospital. And, when he got there? Well, then he could get Vicodin, and breakfast, and maybe a few other things on his list, from the Head of Oncology.

Grumbling, House tossed back the lid on the ceramic jar where they kept the coffee grounds. There was a nice whiff of coffee, and he dipped a spoon in to get some grounds for the filter in his other hand, but instead of grounds he got another note from Wilson.

_We need coffee too._

_J_

Asshole. _Fucking,_ asshole.

House crumpled the note and tossed it back into the coffee container. Fine then, he could get coffee at work with his breakfast.

Jimmy could have mentioned the fact that he needed to get groceries at least once, instead of letting him find out in this roundabout way. Of course, he said several times that it was House's turn to do the shopping, but he'd never been led to believe that this meant he was _actually_ expected to go out and buy anything.

Damn Wilson.

House glanced at his watch; he'd better get going anyway, or he'd be late. He sat on the sofa to put on his shoes, and grabbed his jacket and helmet out of the closet. Still feeling a little pissed, he threw the door open and stepped out onto the street. He was greeted by the crack of thunder and a downpour of rain. He wasn't exactly surprised.

He pulled his cell out as he went back inside, and he hit the 1 button to speed-dial Wilson. Abstaining from calling Jimmy to come and get him his cane, so he didn't have to crawl from the bed to the door, was one thing. Not calling Wilson to pick him up now, when it was pouring out and Wilson had the car, was something else. He wasn't about to walk the few miles to work in the rain, and he certainly wasn't about to make the attempt without vast consumption of Vicodin. If he tried to ride the bike in today he'd likely end up splattered on the asphalt: just another scuff on the body of his Honda. It was bad enough that he was going to be riding with his leg acting up; with the roads rain-slicked to boot, he was just inviting disaster.

The phone rang one final time, and he was greeted by Wilson's voice telling him that he had reached Dr. James Wilson and if he would be so kind as to leave a message Jimmy would get back to him ASAP.

Well, that was just great.

House cancelled the call, and hit 2 for Wilson's office; the result was much the same.

"Well, fuck Jimmy, where are you when I need you?"

He dialed Cuddy, and grimaced when she picked up on the first ring.

"Cuddy," she answered briskly.

House managed a weak cough. "I don't think I can make it in today," he said in a harsh whisper.

"House, cut it out! You are not sick. You've already skipped out on clinic duty twice this week." She prattled on for a while longer about his duties to the hospital, with the occasional insult to his character.

House dropped the act. "You know, I'm a doctor too. Some people even think I'm a pretty good doctor. Why don't you trust my medical opinion?"

"House, you are not sick."

"I'm pretty sure it's Lupus, but I'm going to have to run some tests; it could take a while."

"If you're not standing in this clinic in twenty minutes, you're fired."

"You can't fire me; I have tenure. You know you can't fire me. I know you can't fire me. So, why bother with the threats?"

"Twenty minutes."

"But it's raining out, and Wilson took the car," he whined.

"Call a cab," Cuddy said, and hung up on him.

There was no way in hell he was going to call a cab. Cabs smelled bad, as did cab drivers for that matter. Paying cab fare made him feel like he'd been fucked over, and, well, for that sort of thing you had to buy him dinner first.

So, that eighty-sixed that idea. He tried Wilson's cell again, not expecting any better results and not getting any. House didn't bother leaving a message.

Maybe he should call one of his fellows to come pick him up. Cameron would do it, but he still didn't know what was going on with Wilson and he didn't want Cameron to find cause to involve herself. Chase would probably just pick him up with no questions asked, but then he'd expect a favor in return. House had the feeling that Foreman would just decline outright.

Damn.

House left his helmet lying on the sofa and went to the closet for a different jacket. He wasn't about to ruin his leather jacket by wearing it while walking to work during a monsoon, nor was he inclined to jeopardize his new totally bitchrod status by wearing a poncho over his digs.

He selected one of Wilson's old coats from the closet and pulled it on over his blazer. He still put this whole situation down to Wilson's damned libido and lack of consideration. So, if Jimmy couldn't be bothered to ensure that he had cane, drugs, and transportation, then Jimmy would just have to deal with any shit that House felt like sending his way. If the least of it was a wet coat and a messy apartment, then he was getting off easy.

House shouldered his backpack, and headed out the door.

Twenty minutes later, he was soaked through to his skin and if he didn't sit down very soon his leg was going to give out and he would end up sprawled in the gutter. There was a convenience store half a block down, where he'd be able to get in out of the rain at least. He was still a mile from the hospital, and he was beginning to regret his decision not to call a cab.

House made it in out of the rain just in time; he could feel his strained leg on the verge of a spasm as he sat down quickly on the first available surface: a knee high counter covered with stacks of newspapers. The spotted teenager behind the cash register glared at him-- just some scruffy cripple dripping all over the newspapers.

House could care less what some barely post-pubescent gas-pumper thought of him. He dug the half-melted aspirin, by this point bordering on fully melted, out of his pocket and made short work of crunching them into mush in his mouth. This time he didn't even note the taste, just chewed eagerly. The kid behind the counter was now staring at him openly.

"Never seen a wet cripple before?" The kid just stared blankly. "It's only aspirin. You wouldn't happen to have something stronger…," he broke off, diagnosing the kid's personality and character. No, probably not.

The kid looked away from him, coughing loudly. House took in the mucus dripping from the kid's nose. It probably wasn't anything interesting, and he quickly lost interest, turning his attention to removing the aspirin that was stuck between his teeth with the tip of his tongue.

He sat there for twenty minutes, massaging his leg and watching the customers come and go. He lost interest in a fat woman rifling through the milk cooler and flipped open his cell to try Jimmy again. He only succeeded at invoking Wilson's voicemail for the third time. This time, House took a second to leave a message.

"If you're not too busy telling people that they're going to die, you could try calling me back, you bastard. Also, if you want a repeat of last night, you'd better come up with a pretty damned good way to make all this up to me. I have a few suggestions, but if you want to hear them you'll have to call me back, James." The use of Wilson's Christian (er, Jewish?) name was a finely calculated ploy to get a quick response, but House decided to add a quick, "Love you," for good measure.

He folded his phone closed with a feeling that might have been satisfaction if his damned leg didn't hurt so much. He loved manipulating Wilson to his will.

When he looked up, House saw that the milk woman was staring at him and giving him a disapproving look. He took in the crucifix around her neck and her matching holier-than-thou-art manner.

House matched her gaze. "Yeah, I wouldn't worry about it either. I'm sure they were only kidding about the whole love thy neighbor bit: just put it in for shits and giggles. The meek are probably getting screwed out of their inheritance too, but I'm sure they won't mind. What you really need to pay attention to is those chapters in Leviticus where it tells you not to eat shellfish, and the proper way to go about getting mold out of your house-- not to mention, how sodomy is a sin and all the homosexuals are going to burn in hell. But yeah, I'd definitely worry about the mold if I were you."

The woman blanched, and scooped up her milk to go. She avoided eye contact with House as she scurried past him out the door.

The kid turned to him then, trying to look firm and apologetic at the same time and consequently failing at both. "Sir, you're bothering the other customers. If you're not going to buy something, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

House grabbed one of the soggy newspapers from the pile behind him and threw it at the kid. "And I'll take one of those cans of Monster," he said, pointing to a neat pyramid of energy drinks on the counter.

House ran his knuckles over his thigh one final time for good measure, and reached for his wallet. But, where he should have found a slightly bulging square of cow hide, he only encountered wet denim and ass.

"It's gonna be $2.57," the kid said, setting the paper and energy drink down on the counter next to House, and wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"I left my wallet… somewhere," at home probably. He couldn't remember the last time he had to pay for anything; Wilson usually covered daily costs, and he just paid the household bills.

The kid let out a sigh and took the Monster back, returning the newspaper to its pile. He didn't really seem too surprised by House's present lack of cash flow.

House looked longingly at the can of Monster. What he wouldn't give to have a little caffeine running through his veins. "Wait, maybe I have some change." He dug through all of the pockets of Wilson's coat in succession, but came up empty handed.

Of course the pockets were empty. Wilson was too damned neat to have pocket change rattling around in an unused coat. He had to empty it all neatly into the jar on his bedside table every night.

"Look, sir, you're really going to have to leave." The kid went back to the cash register and began to remove House's transaction: clearly annoyed.

"I'm a doctor; I have my own office and everything. I have all kinds of money. Can't I just write you an IOU or something?"

The kid just raised an eyebrow at him.

What was it with the youth today? They're all so damn skeptical.

"I work at Princeton-Plainsboro down the street. Just give me the Monster now, and in twenty minutes I'll have a skinny brunette here with ten dollars.You can keep the change. If you think up a good sob story, you might even get a little action; she's a sucker for angsty lost causes. Anyway, that's an extra eight bucks in your pocket. Do you even make eight dollars an hour?"

But the kid wasn't buying it. "If you were a doctor, you would have a car."

House tried to reason with the kid. "I drive a motorcycle. It's a neon orange Honda Repsol. Maybe you've seen it; I drive by here every day. But, as you can see, it's raining out, so I couldn't drive it to work today. The guy I live with took the car, and I can't get him on the phone to come pick me up. His name is Dr. James Wilson; he works at PPTH too. He's the Head of Oncology. That’s cancer. Cancer’s easy. If your patients are already dying when you get them, they don't mind so much if one decides to kick the bucket. But, if someone decides to get better, then it's a miracle. I'm the Head of the Department of Diagnostic Medicine, on the other hand. They get mad when my patients die. I have a double specialty in infectious diseases and nephrology. I know lots of really big names for lots of really little parasites. Did I mention the big shiny office? Please, just let me take the energy drink. I’m having a really rough day. I promise I’ll pay you back."

But the kid still wasn't buying any of it. If anything, he looked even more skeptical and annoyed. "You can't drive a motorcycle; you have a cane. If you don't leave I'm going to call the cops."

House ground his teeth into his lower lip, nodding. Oh yeah, the way today was going it was going to take a lot more than some pock-scarred kid with mono calling the cops to get the jump on him. He was probably bluffing anyway, but with his luck, House wasn't taking any chances. What good was a medical degree if he couldn't even convince a hormonal teenager to loan him two bucks for twenty minutes, even with the added bonus of Cameron delivering the payoff? But, maybe it was just a question of logistics. It seemed unlikely, given the boy's reaction when House told the church woman off, but it was worth a shot.

"Alright, I can get you a built Australian with great hair and twenty bucks. But, I'll need half an hour. And you'll have to think of something better than that woe-is-me, this-is-my-life bullshit you were going to pull with the girl, because he won't buy it. That's my final offer."

The kid definitely wasn't going for it.

"Like them chocolate?"

"Sir…"

"Ok, fine. A Jew, forty-five minutes, and you'll be lucky to get the two bucks, but it's totally worth it: great blowjobs."

The kid made a point of picking up the phone.

"Fine! Fine!" House got to his feet with only minimal difficulty, leaving behind a puddle on the counter. That kid was just lucky that he hadn't offered up Cuddy on a silver platter.

He had to lean heavily on his cane when he tried to put a little tentative weight on his leg. It was only a few blocks now, and he was just way too damned stubborn to call a cab after he'd made it this far. Although, Chase was starting to sound pretty good.

House stopped a step from the door and turned back to the kid. "They give you health insurance in this place?"

The kid snorted. "I wish."

House nodded, smiling for the first time all day, though with anticipated vengeance on his mind rather than any feelings of joy or contentment.

"See you next week," he muttered. Maybe the clinic did have its high points. Just make sure the kid's dad isn't a cop.

House walked the last couple blocks and made it into the hospital less than ten minutes later: his leg screaming in agony, his mind muttering thoughts of revenge.

He practically hobbled into the clinic, and collapsed into the first available chair. The chair next to him was occupied by a smelly, dripping, man in coveralls. He wasn't sure if the moisture dripping from the man's face and big hammy forearms was sweat or if he had just come in out of the rain. A man was dripping, and he couldn't even decide if it was being caused by some kind of potentially interesting disease or merely a symptom of the weather. He definitely needed Vicodin, now. He gave the fat man a half-hearted scowl, and then turned it on the nurse at the front desk.

"Page Dr. Wilson, now!"

The nurse appeared a little alarmed. "Sir, you'll have to wait until," but House cut her off.

"My name is Dr. Gregory House. I am the Head of Diagnostic Medicine at this hospital, and you need to page Dr. James Wilson, right now!"

Now the nurse was definitely alarmed, as were most of the patients for that matter, but fortunately Cuddy came around the corner in a flash of administrative glory to save the day.

Cuddy leaned over the desk and spoke to the nurse in a low whisper. "Would you please page Dr. Wilson."

Then she walked over to House and spoke in an even lower whisper. "You're late. What happened?"

House thought that whispering was silly. "I GOT MUGGED BY A CAB DRIVER!"

Cuddy sighed, but she never seemed to be actually surprised by House's behavior anymore. She looked him up and down. "Did you walk here?"

"I told you; Jimmy took the car."

"House, you are such an idiot. You're just lucky that you didn't collapse in the road."

House shrugged it off. "Why doesn't that idiot nurse know who I am?" he asked, plenty loud enough for the nurse to hear him.

"Well, maybe if you showed up for clinic duty every once in a while, the staff would recognize you. She's not likely to forget now, anyway."

House grimaced as he experimentally shifted his weight onto his left side.

Cuddy looked out into the hall—still no Wilson. She rested a hand on House's shoulder. "Wait here.”

"Oh good, I was getting tired of running amok through the hospital."

Cuddy ignored him and went back to the front desk.

"Did you get Dr. Wilson?" she asked the rather flushed nurse.

"His beeper's not responding."

Cuddy frowned. "Try calling his office." Cuddy stood there waiting while the nurse dialed his extension, but there was no answer. House got tired of waiting and decided to find Wilson on his own.

"I thought I told you to wait," Cuddy said, hurrying over to help steady him on his feet. "What happened to being tired of running amok in my hospital?"

"I lied. I guess I have a little more amoking to run. Besides, I have a bone to pick with someone."

"Let me go with you then."

"No, I've got it."

“Fine then. I guess if you collapse _inside_ the hospital, someone will find you eventual. If you’re lucky, they won’t know who you are, and they might even _help_ you.”

House didn’t even bother to snipe back; he just limped his weary way to the bank of elevators and leaned against the wall while he waited for a swarm of moron interns to get out of his way.

He managed to ease himself into an uncomfortable position in the corner of the elevator that actually managed to not hurt his leg too terribly much. He punched his floor number with the rubber-ended tip of his cane, and gripped the rails as the elevator brought him up.

When the elevator doors opened onto his floor, Cameron was waiting on the other side.

"Cuddy called me," she explained, hurrying forward to offer him a hand.

House brushed past her. "If I wanted a cane with the power to annoy me, I would have picked Chase; he has better hair. I need you to take our patient in for a CT."

"You haven't accepted any new patients. Mrs. Johnston was released this morning."

House continued hobbling down the hall, unfazed. "Well go down to the waiting room and grab a couple. They're down there, just _waiting._ Go grab a new one and scan its brain."

"House," Cameron started, but he was still hopping grumpily down the hall, and Cameron didn't really know what to say to calm him down anyway. If his leg really hurt that much he would have stayed at home. She followed him down the hall at a walk, leaving him plenty of room to walk ahead of her.

She was going to follow him into his office, but when he just kept going and went for Wilson's office instead, Cameron held back.

"House?"

He turned to her, hand on the door handle. "It's none of your business, Cameron. I think you'd better stay on the bench for this one."

Cameron snorted and huffed off to her own office, muttering about sports metaphors.

Wilson was only momentarily startled as someone entered his office, slamming the door behind them, and that was mostly because of his general nervousness over the large pile of freshly rolled joints lying on his desk. It was obviously House, but the tone of the door slam worried him. It wasn't House's usual slam. Something was wrong. The door had actually been slammed shut in anger, rather than being closed with calculated force for the effect.

Wilson reprimanded himself inwardly, for obsessing about _how_ House slammed his door instead of _that_ House slammed his door.

He kept his eyes on his paperwork, as he scribbled down the last couple of words on the file that he had open, then shifted his gaze up to House.

He was actually a little surprised by House's appearance. He had seen him in varying stages of unkempt misuse before, with results ranging from dead sexy to worrying or repulsive (the latter depending on whether you knew the man or not, and whether or not you liked him if you did,) but Wilson had never seen him looking quite like this.

"House, you look awful. What happened?"

"Where were you this morning?" House asked, making little effort to conceal his venomous tone.

"I got called in. One of my patients took a turn. She's stabilized now," Wilson explained, rising from his chair.

House staggered forward a few steps to try to loom over Wilson, but the effect was ruined by the water dripping off his nose.

"I left you a note,” Wilson said.

"You left me lots of notes."

"I stuck it in your jacket pocket, next to your wallet."

House growled.

"Is this about the coffee? I told you to get more last week." He looked House up and down. "Why are you wearing my coat? Why are you all wet?"

"It's raining. Why aren't you answering your phone? Why did you take my pills?"

"My phone," Wilson reached for his phone, but it was in his lab coat. "I think I left it in the O.R. I put your Vicodin in your pocket with the note. It's raining? How did you get here?"

"I walked."

"You, what?"

"I walked." House repeated. He took one of the joints off Wilson's desk. "You're in trouble."

"I.." but Wilson wasn't quite sure what to say.

House stuck the joint between his lips. "Match?"

Wilson sat back down, still not at all sure what he had done to make House angry at _him._

"Match, Jimmy?"

Wilson dug into the bottom drawer of his desk until he found an old book of matches that looked like they'd been through the wash. He handed them to House, without really thinking about it.

"Good, now run down to the pharmacy and get me a fresh bottle of Vicodin."

Wilson got up to do what he was told. Halfway to the door a waft of smoke caught his attention, and he turned back to House. "At least go smoke that out on the balcony, and for god's sake make sure no one sees you." He took another step towards the door, and then paused again. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, believe me; you'll be making it up to me."

House watched him go, and then went out onto the balcony. He took a satisfied drag off his joint. The rain pelted down onto his already soaked frame, but he was almost enjoying it now. Wilson would be in his pocket for weeks after this.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments of all shapes, sizes, and varieties are very much appreciated. I love to hear from you.
> 
> Blanket permission is granted for all translation, podfic, and fanart- as always. So, if that's something you're interested in, feel free. My playground is your playground.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
